


War Games

by Ordinary_Magic



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7438281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinary_Magic/pseuds/Ordinary_Magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, Death, and  Paint Pellets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mounties on the Move

**Author's Note:**

> Rating(s): PG-13  
> Pairing(s): Fraser/Thatcher  
> Teaser: Life, Death, and Paint Pellets.

Constable Benton Fraser checked his backpack one final time. Next to him Constable Renfield Turnbull was stuffing a third pair of blue jeans into one of his bags. Fraser looked at a pair of slippers peeking out from under a t-shirt and shook his head in disbelief. It was no use telling Turnbull **_again_** that for this exercise more was definitely less. Whatever they took into the woods would have to be carried for up to five days. Glancing over at the Inspector, he was surprised to see that she had packed as lightly as he. She easily shouldered her pack and boarded the bus. He flushed slightly as his gaze lingered on her snug olive green t-shirt, which was tucked into loose-fitting camouflage pants. Calf-length black hiking boots completed her outfit.

Sighing, he assisted Turnbull with his bags as they boarded the bus to the rendezvous point, about twenty miles outside Waukegan, IL. They received four hours notice, as had the US military personnel, about participating in this joint training exercise. The bus pulled into the Presidio, the US military base outside Chicago. Conversation became impossible as the relative quiet was broken by the appearance of thirty boisterous men in varying degrees of combat dress.

As the bus began to fill, Fraser noticed the appraising looks being directed toward Inspector Thatcher. The American soldiers were not attempting to be subtle.

"Hey, honey... can I help you with your bag?" one G.I. with the nametag R. WILSON leered as he pushed past toward the back of the bus.

"It'll get cold out there at night, little lady, you could team up with me. I'll keep you warm," his buddy E. RENO volunteered.

"Don't worry, **_I'll_** keep you covered out there," another man joined in. The jeering continued as more of the men stowed their bags and grabbed seats.

Thatcher sat calmly, eyes forward with no response to the heckling.

Fraser stood up, removed his pack from the seat next to him, and moved against the line of boarding soldiers heading toward the front of the bus.

"Excuse me."

"Pardon me."

"Oh, dear. So sorry about your foot...."

The G.I. who had offered to keep Thatcher warm glared as he rubbed his injured instep. Fraser pushed onward ignoring comments of "pansy” and "faggot". Apparently trash-talking was part of the US Military training course.

"Is this seat taken, sir?" Without waiting for a reply, he dropped his bag in the aisle and kicked it under the seat. Meg Thatcher motioned toward the empty spot beside her and returned to staring straight ahead. He noticed some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared as he took his place beside her.

"Why did you move, Fraser?” she asked, still not looking at him.

"I tend to become motion sick in the back of vehicles," he answered simply. He knew that she would not accept any other reason. She would be insulted by his ‘protection’ from the men, and in reality, the men would need protection from her. They had never seen her angry.

Not another word was spoken between them until forty minutes later at the last pick-up site. A group of five very unsettled men boarded the bus outside of the Schaumburg National Guard station. The G.I.s attention left the ‘foreigners’ and now rested squarely upon the hapless bunch of weekend warriors.

A heavyset man with a florid face took the open seat in front of the RCMP officers. Turning to face them he extended a hand toward Thatcher. "Ed Johnson, reservist. Looks as if we're in for a rough weekend," he said pleasantly. "I see you two are about as popular as my boys are," he laughed.

Meg extended her hand, dazzling him with her beautiful smile. "Nice to meet you, Ed. I am Meg Thatcher, Inspector, RCMP in Chicago, and my Deputy Liaison Officer, Benton Fraser."

"Pleased to meet you." Fraser also shook hands with the reservist.

"The man about three-quarters of the way back, with all the bags on his lap is Constable Turnbull," she continued.

Ed followed her directions and saw the Constable pinned in by the G.I.s on one side and his bags on the other. "He hasn't done this sort of thing recently, has he?" Ed commented, noting Turnbull's excess luggage and unhappy expression.

Meg sadly shook her head no. "We just received word about this exercise a few hours ago. To be honest, I haven't participated in field re-certification in years." She did not appear to be worried.

"The last survival course my group was on had to be about six months ago, but it was nothing close to this scale," Ed volunteered.

Benton Fraser held his silence. The less information obtained by the enemy, the more advantage would be for his team.  


@}--,------

The bus had arrived at its destination: a densely wooded forest preserve well away from any civilian population. Disembarking was not quite as bad as Fraser had anticipated. Only one G.I. made the error in judgement to ‘accidentally’ brush up against the Inspector. Fraser's face showed none of the satisfaction he felt at the man's ‘accidental’ loss of balance and subsequent headfirst tumble down the bus steps and into the dirt.

To be fair, she did offer to help him to his feet. He declined, scurrying away from her in a crab-like motion, fear evident in his face. Fraser collected Turnbull, shouldered Turnbull's extra bag, and met up with Thatcher at the main tent for the briefing.

A US officer stepped up to the podium. "Welcome to Camp Bloodshed, gentlemen. As you know this little training exercise is a trial programme. The goal of this mission is to evaluate the level of combat and survival skills which you have already learned through your time in service."

"We are happy to include a few branches from outside the norm this weekend to help shake things up. I believe we have representatives here from the Schaumburg National Guard, the Lisle PD, and guests from the Canadian Military service... the consulate in Chicago, I believe."

Fraser heard several of the Presidio G.I.s snicker in the background. "Careful," one man stage whispered, "the Canadians might inflict a paper cut on us." The resulting laughter was quickly ended by the glare of the officer on the podium.

"Normally, you would be divided into combat teams, but since there is such a large disparity of Presidio personnel to the other groups, we have decided to move forward to the individual competition, although you are free to start off in a group if you so desire." The officer looked pleased with the development.

The cheers and shouts from the men served to drown out Turnbull's explanation of the word disparity to the G.I.s around him.

Fraser heard Meg turn to the man next to her. "This means…?" she questioned.

"It means last man standing wins. Kill everything," the G.I. answered.

"Oh, dear," Fraser muttered.

"And one last thing - once you have left base camp and crossed into the kill zone, disregard rank. Dismissed." The officer stepped down from the podium, and was soon lost to sight in the crowd.

Fraser fell into position at the Inspector's side, and again shouldered one of Turnbull's bags as they walked with the crowd toward the implementation area, the officer's words a reverberating litany: _disregard rank_. If only it were that simple.


	2. A Walk in the Woods

"Isn't this great fun, sir?" Turnbull babbled, oblivious to the sea of testosterone-saturated soldiers. 

"A riot," Thatcher snapped, regretting the acceptance of the orders to participate. It was all for Public Relations, and she could have said no, but how hard could a weekend walk through the woods be? Her head started to throb from the onset of a migraine. 

Their small threesome melted into the throng of men waiting to be issued weapons, MREs, and personal trackers. In the crush of bodies and gear he found himself pushed toward the outer fringe on the group. Fraser could not see either the Inspector or Turnbull. He shifted Turnbull's extra bag to his other hand. No telling how long this would take. The movement toward the elevated platform seemed to crawl. 

There was some grumbling from the men up front , and suddenly Turnbull was thrust forward, amid derisive laughter. 

A corporal motioned him up on the platform. "Strip!" he barked at the hapless constable. The men’s catcalls and harassment intensified as Turnbull set his bag down and gripped the bottom hem of his green t-shirt with maple leaf logo on the sleeve. He hesitated, searching through the crowd for a friendly face. 

"Do you have a hearing problem, Mister?" The corporal was less than amused at the delay. 

"No.... no, sir!" Turnbull answered by rote. 

"Get that shirt off now or I'll rip it off you, understand?" 

"Yes, sir," Turnbull replied, yanking the cotton shirt up and over his face, tangling his arm in the opaque fabric. 

"Oh my God, no wonder we own Canada!" someone called out. 

"Look! It's Miss Canada 2016, we're in for it now, boys!" 

The jeering and ridicule showed no signs of abating. True to his word, the corporal grabbed a handful of shirt and yanked it roughly. There was a small ripping sound as his arm was freed. Although the morning air was pleasantly warm, Turnbull shivered. His pale white skin broke out in goose bumps as he tried to fold his arms over his chest. It wasn't that Turnbull was underdeveloped, thought Fraser, his musculature was merely not as defined as some of these professional warriors. The fact that most of the year Canadians in the northern provinces wore shirts and sun block also contributed to the abuse. 

"He looks like Snow White's ass!" yelled the man standing next to Fraser. 

"Really, do you think that sort of comment is called for?" he remarked sharply, but was ignored. 

The corporal presented a paint pellet rifle to Turnbull and instructed him to shoot at the large piece of butcher paper stapled to the tree fifty feet off to the side. Adopting a perfect shooter's posture, Turnbull easily executed a single shot, the resulting lilac splotch developing at the exact centre. 

Another man quickly slammed a small rectangular object into the left upper quadrant of his chest with a great deal more force than was necessary, and secured it with a heavy grade wide tape. Turnbull was then uncermoneously shoved off the stage.

"Secured, Corporal!" the man confirmed. 

The corporal tossed Turnbull his shirt and told him to go stand next to the tree. "Move it, Tinkerbell!" 

A quick Polaroid photo was taken of Turnbull with the paint colour assigned to him, with a great deal of snickering over the pastel colour. A small bag with MREs, "ammo," and a canteen of water was handed to him, and Turnbull added it to his other bag. 

"Next!" the corporal shouted. Turnbull slowly pulled on his ripped shirt over the small tracker unit and stumbled off into the crowd waiting at the starting point. He saw the paper taken down carefully from the pine tree, and a fresh sheet stapled up, ready for the next man. 

Meg watched as the three over-buffed, Cro-Magnons ahead of her were processed. Then it was her turn. 

Fraser glanced up toward the platform when the wolf whistles started. Surely they would not force the Inspector to strip to the waist as the men had done, would they? He listened intently, trying to hear what the men on the platform were saying. 

After a moment's deliberation, the corporal ordered Meg to strip off her shirt, much to the delight of the men gathered. 

"That will not be necessary," she replied calmly, focusing her attention only on the man at her side. 

"You gals want to be equal and all in this man's army, so show us your... _equalities_ ," he replied, in a just-doing-my-job snide manner. 

From the back of the crowd came the chant, "Take it off!" 

Fraser started elbowing his way to the front of the group. This was going beyond protocol. This was meant to humiliate his Commanding Officer for the sole fact she was female. He needn't have worried. 

"Give me that!" Thatcher lost patience and snatched the transponder unit from the man's hand. 

"Hey! Can she do that?" he complained to the corporal. 

"I said take off your shirt, soldier!" the corporal was becoming incensed. 

"Do **you** have a hearing problem, corporal?" Thatcher drew herself up to her full height, fixing the maggot under a stare as hard as arctic ice. "I said it would **not be necessary**. Do you understand me, _corporal_?" she continued, emphasising the man's rank. 

He backed down immediately. "Yes, sir!" 

"Fine, then. Hand me a weapon and let's get this over with." She quickly stuffed the tracker unit down her cleavage, and accepted the offered strip of tape from the other man, pressing it against her sleeve for use later. "Thank you kindly." 

There were groans of disappointment and a few boos and hisses from the assembled men. Thatcher brought up the rifle and made a hot pink splotch on the butcher paper. She immediately scrambled off the platform, collected her rations and posed for a snapshot. Fraser smiled. 'Well done,' he thought. 

"Over here, sir." Thatcher saw Turnbull waving from the side. She moved to join him. Noting a commotion from the way she had come, she glanced back at the stage in time to see Fraser being processed. Stripped to the waist, he stood calmly as the transponder was taped to his magnificent chest. Although also much paler than the soldiers around them, she found the form of her deputy officer striking. His muscles were not grossly expanded, and he had the sleek proportions of a hunter in his natural habitat. Fraser moved with the ease of a man who is comfortable in his own skin. His powder-puff blue splotch was duly photographed and he ignored the name calling from the other men. She looked up, realising that Turnbull had been talking to her for the last few moments while she had been transfixed on Fraser's physique. 

"We certainly seem to have been assigned very floral colours," Turnbull observed. 

"Yes," Meg replied, looking at her hot pink ammo in disgust. 

A shadow fell over them and she sensed a presence behind her. A large black-haired man built like a rock quarry laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, clutching her shirt in his fist as though he would rip it off of her by force. Turnbull bristled at the severe breech of etiquette. 

"You got off easy," a low, gruff voice said. 

Slowly Meg turned her head, ending up mere centimetres from tall, dark, and stupid. The nametag on his camouflage jacket read R. WILSON. She remembered him as one of the hecklers from the bus. "Actually, _you_ did," she said in a conversational tone of voice. 

"How do you figure that, little lady?" 

"Because you'll able to walk after the pain wears off." She followed that comment with an immediate stomp to the behemoth’s instep, and turned letting the momentum of her body carry her elbow straight back and down scoring a hit in the solar plexus. The soldier managed to emit a small "Oomph", as the breath was driven from his body by pain, and his hand fell away from her shoulder. Cradling his nether regions, he abruptly sat down in the dirt. Meg picked up her pack and started walking. Turnbull opened his mouth once or twice, trying to think of an appropriate comment on the behaviour of his Commanding Officer. Deciding discretion was the safest route, he shouldered his bags and trotted off in her wake, sparing an occasional glance back at the fallen soldier. 

Fraser, having witnessed the altercation from behind, headed after them. He stopped briefly to extend a hand up to the G.I. "Do you require medical assistance?" he inquired innocently, memorising the man's face for later. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man's three compatriots from the bus heading in their direction. 

"No, leave me alone!" Wilson gasped, rocking slightly back and forth on the ground. "I tripped is all. Get moving. If I see any of you out there past the kill zone, you're dead meat." 

Fraser nodded sharply and continued on reaching Turnbull and the Inspector, and resumed his rightful place at her side. The trio quietly headed off into the woods noticing other small groups were forming and those who were more paranoid slinking off solo. 

The quartet of G.I.s passed by, snickering at Fraser. "Oooh, Constable, your paint matches your baby-blues, you're so lucky. I've got orange and it clashes terribly," Ed Reno mouthed off. 

Receiving no reaction from the tall Mountie, their attention turned to his female companion. 

"Dibs on **her** ," said Wilson, menacingly. 

"No way man, I'll take **her** down personally," Reno leered. 

"Baby, you're gonna enjoy this, I'll make sure of that," added J ROURKE, the third member of their trio. His buddies laughed and slapped him on the back. 

The Canadian trio ignored the ribbing and slowly pushed further into the woods toward the taped boundary of the "kill zone," allowing the soldiers to pass by. 

"Fraser...." 

Benton glanced sharply at Thatcher, not certain if he heard her whisper his name. Turnbull trudged on oblivious. 

Sensing his stare, she flushed. "I meant to... to ask a favour, unless you…" she whispered a bit louder. Fraser fought the sudden urge to throw his arm around her and pull her to him. He remembered this tone from their entrapment at the egg factory, when she also struggled to tell him... _something_.

"Anything," he said softly, meaning it. 

"If it comes down to one of **them** ," she shuddered with distaste, "taking me out or you, please shoot me." She stared straight ahead, uncomfortable with this admission of weakness. 

"Shoot you, sir?" This conversation was turning out to be one of the more unusual ones. Not Ray unusual, but close. 

"You heard me, constable," she replied in a normal tone. 

"Yes, sir," he gave the only answer he could, catching her sideward glance and reading the gratitude in those dark chocolate eyes. They walked on in silence, the rustling leaves and snapping twigs marking their progress. 


End file.
